Even more so if you get to relive past glories and join in.
It was with that in mind I found myself standing on the sideline, dog lying nearby licking his private parts, as the two teams continued their warm-up.
But there was a problem. One side was short.
The rival coaches were discussing the dilemma while this went on and as fate would have it, a loose ball rolled right to my feet.
Now I should explain here dear reader, I have played this game before. Quite well actually. In fact, for a brief period 40-odd years ago and miles away, I was paid to play.
Okay. That probably sounds a bit big-headed. I certainly didn’t earn enough to pay my mortgage each week, but let’s just say I didn’t need to dip into my savings for a beer that season.
Actually, the team I played for was sponsored by a Chinese gentleman and we were supplied with tracksuits, training gear, boots ... you name it. Dizzying stuff for a youngster from the country.
Every Thursday, after a hard training, we would dutifully traipse down to his restaurant where our club secretary would hand over a little brown envelope with our pay, the amount depending on whether we had won, lost or drawn the previous week. This would then be returned to the sponsor over the bar.
So that was the extent of my professional football career. For the next 20 years I was like everyone else and found my niche. I didn’t really care about the cash. I felt like a superstar and I’d have played for free.
But I digress.
So here I am at the park and ball has rolled to my feet. Quick as a flash I’ve lifted it with my foot up to my knee, juggled it from left to right leg and sent a perfectly weighted pass back from where it came.
As all those old memories of past exploits on the field came flooding back, one of the coaches came over.
“I thought it was you,” he said. “Fancy a game?”
Turns out we’d played against each other many moons ago when we could still touch — and see — our toes. He’d been coaching these guys for a while and was enjoying it. It was only a training game, but if I fancied a run it would help them out.
I didn’t need to be asked twice.
I tied George to a tree in the shade and took up my place on the field.
As the whistle blew for the start, it all came flooding back. For the next 20 minutes or so I was 19 again. Running, tackling, urging my teammates on. Even the referee was impressed with my enthusiasm. At least I think that’s what he said. He did come over to me a few times and asked me to calm down a bit.
Naturally, I assumed he knew I’d been a pro and didn’t want me to show these guys up so I toned it down a bit.
I won’t lie to you. I was a little out of shape and as the game moved into the second half I found myself drifting further back in the field, away from the play.
As I say, I’d played enough to know that’s what happens when you get tired, but I remained resolute in my defence of the goalkeeper behind me.
Obviously, I was doing a good job because he seemed to get a bit bored. I’d taken the ball off this nippy blond fellah up front for the other team for the umpteenth time when I heard the goalkeeper yell out in frustration at the coach.
A few minutes later the coach ran on to the field and asked me if I’d swap with the goalie. He said the guy needed a workout and I was doing such a good job stopping anyone getting through to him, he was getting cold.
Naturally, I wanted to help, so I went in goal.
For the last 10 minutes of the game I threw myself about energetically and patrolled my goal area like a panther. Anyone who came near was in peril and they knew it. As a result they started taking long-range shots, all of which I repelled with ease, diving this way and that.
Eventually, the whistle blew and the game ended. I thanked the guys for letting me play, went and got George and headed home to tell Mrs P why I was away so long.
It has to be said the half a mile back to our place seemed to take a lot longer than it did when I left earlier on. In fact, by the time I got through the door I was, well, pretty much buggered.
“What happened to you?,” said Mrs P incredulously as I stood there in the doorway, grass stains on my knees and quivering muscles throughout my body tightening by the second.
I think I mentioned something about football. I know not. I’d lost my voice from barking commands at my fellow players.
Thankfully, My Beloved took charge and ran me a hot bath.
And it was there, an hour of gentle soaking later, that a wave of satisfaction rolled through me. That was fun.
I knew the kids wouldn’t believe me when I told them, but at least I had a trophy as proof of my involvement.
It’s sitting on the shelf above the telly in the lounge.
The inscription on it is, I think, rather apt.
It reads: “Best effort Sunday under 10s.”
